


Questions to an Older Brother

by December



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Angst, M/M, sibcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December/pseuds/December
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had always turned to Boromir for the answers. But Boromir does not always know better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questions to an Older Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [Вопросы к старшему брату](https://archiveofourown.org/works/224647) by [December](https://archiveofourown.org/users/December/pseuds/December)



> **Warnings** : angst, sibcest, underage, language.

“What’s it like?” he asks, at eleven.

Not because he is one of those unfortunate boys obsessed even at this early age, which he is not. Simply because it is one of the things he does not know – and what he does not know, he goes to his older brother to ask about.

But Boromir only shrugs, and none of Faramir’s bright-eyed curiosity reflects on his still beardless face. He, apparently, does not know either, and is in no hurry to find out. He considers himself a man, and men have more important things to take up their thought than cunt.

Faramir returns to the matter two years later, this time no longer so randomly or idly. And Boromir’s response this time, too, is different. He laughs.

“Pretty disgusting, really,” he confides with a snort.

Faramir’s face is a combination of disappointment and disbelief, and Boromir laughs again.

“Picture,” he says, lifting up his spread hands as though to paint an imaginary landscape, “a fish. Slippery. Slimy. Smells like fish. It’s beheaded, too. And you stick your hand right in and try to gut it,” he gesticulates accordingly, twisting his wrist, delving forth.

Faramir watches him doubtfully, then shakes his head.

“Forget it.”

“Aye, and you should too – you’ll be a warrior soon, busy yourself with that.”

Another two years pass before late one night Boromir comes to their room brooding like a cloud with the heaviness of unshed rain. Hardly gracing his younger brother with a glance, he proceeds straight to the bed and begins to divest.

“What?” he demands crossly and turns to face Faramir when it becomes apparent that Faramir is just sitting there, watching him.

The lad raises his brows, “Well, I could’ve asked what happened to you, but that seems pretty obvious.” There are scratches even on Boromir’s front, the necklace of bruises descends almost to his chest.

There is little pride in Boromir’s voice as he says, “You have no idea.”

“She must’ve been a strong one,” Faramir offers, sensing from his brother’s tone that Boromir, perhaps, needs to grin about the whole thing.

“Strong, huh,” Boromir tosses his head, and says no more.

But then in the middle of the night, when it is pitch-dark and quiet, Faramir is awakened by his bed sighing under the weight of his brother’s body.

“Boromir?” he calls when for a long time there is no development.

“I lay with a man today,” Boromir announces into space, like a sentence to himself.

“What?” Faramir turns onto his side to face him, even though he cannot see, and frowns in confusion.

“Like I would with a lass,” Boromir confirms, his voice blank and dead.

Faramir searches and searches for what to say, then simply reaches out to touch the young man on the arm. It is then Boromir groans – and begins to sob, soundlessly, and the bed heaves with the convulsions of his body. He does not resist when his brother shifts closer and hugs him.

“It was the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me,” he grits out in between gasps. “It felt so damn _good_. Better even than felling my first Orc! I hate it! Hate it!”

Faramir begins to stroke his hair, and again, Boromir does not resist.

“I didn’t…” he whispers into the front of Faramir’s nightgown, now cool and wet with his tears. “It just happened… I… I don’t know how. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know…”  
Abruptly he rips himself out of the lad’s embrace, sits up, hugs his knees and begins to rock back and forth.

“Father can’t know,” he says with absolute conviction. “He’ll have my head – and balls.”

“You don’t think Father would love you regardless?” Faramir is too surprised to hold back this uncareful question.

Boromir bursts out laughing – but swiftly his laughter progresses into another bout of hysterical weeping. It takes them a long while to calm him down.

“No one can know. It can’t happen again. Can’t,” he whispers very quietly, like a secret.

“But didn’t you say it was the best—” Faramir begins gently.

“Are you mad?! It’s a horrible, horrible… _It can’t happen again! _” Boromir’s last cry is almost a shriek, and it startles them both. Then Boromir begins to rock again. “There’s no one I could trust. No one, _no_ one…”__

“But you trusted me to tell me,” Faramir points out softly.

Even in the darkness he knows Boromir has turned his face to look at him.

“I shouldn’t have,” the man says quietly. “You’re a child. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. You don’t even comprehend what a monstrosity it is – what a monster…” he cannot finish and groans again.

“A child I may seem to you, but nothing you do could ever be a monstrosity to me,” Faramir swears.

And he asks for no answers when many difficult months later it so happens that Boromir kisses him. Nor does he allow Boromir to apologise, to take it back. He presses himself hard against his brother’s front and hides his face on Boromir’s chest.

“I understand,” he assures, even though he understands so little. “Whom else could you trust?”

When in the morning Boromir collects his things from the floor and begins to pull them back on, his fingers moving awkwardly as though numb with cold, his face grim and set, Faramir waits a long time for him to break the silence. The man does not.

The younger brother then asks one last question, “We are not allowed to speak of it, are we?”

“That’s right,” a frown touches Boromir’s brow before he can rule it. He laces up his shirt, then adds gentler, “Please.”

Faramir is not disconcerted. Of course it is difficult for Boromir. Granted, there may be questions the youth would have liked to voice. You understand that I love you, don’t you, regardless and always? You know that I’ll never regret, don’t you? And others of their like – but it is all right, Faramir now has other ways to get it across, and he is certain he will be taught even more ways, for who else could his brother turn to?

 

The End


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